The very thought was enough to bring me to my knees.

My gaze shifted around. Here I sat in my wrinkled orange jumpsuit, handcuffed, waist chained, and shackled around the ankles, waiting for someone to grace me with his or her presence. The million-dollar question was—who was it going to be?

FBI?

DEA?

Someone else entirely?

Voices carried down the hall. Someone was shouting at someone else. It was a female voice I heard getting louder.

Suddenly, the door burst open and the she-devil herself came waltzing in. She had a suit on, and her trademark red heels, but her face wasn’t plastered in that frown she always wore.

Today, she looked genuinely pissed. “Get those off him,” she barked.

Two cops came scurrying in and unlocked the chains and undid the cuffs.

“I’m sorry about that,” she said to me, looking truly upset.

I shrugged. “Want to tell me what this is all about?”

“Out,” she ordered the two cops who were now standing beside me.

“Ma’am, protocol calls for us to stay with the prisoner.”

She narrowed her eyes at them. “If you don’t want me to put your balls in an envelope and mail them home to your wife, you’ll leave us alone. Now!”

They were out of the room in two seconds flat.

Agent Meg Blanchet with her red hair, red nails, and red shoes came and sat across from me. “I gave the orders on Friday for you to be placed under surveillance and then picked up Monday morning for questioning. The local cops assigned to tail you saw you packing your vehicle. They thought you were fleeing the country, so they picked you up Saturday.”

“I wasn’t fleeing. I was going to New York City for the weekend.”

“Not that I don’t believe you, but how do you explain the wire transfer of over five million dollars into one of your accounts?”

My brows popped. “My maternal grandfather must have released my trust fund.”

Dark brown eyes looked unexpectedly amused. “Well, whatever the purpose of the transfer, since there was no passport found in your possession, I don’t believe you were planning on fleeing the country. Unfortunately, an error in the chain of command delayed my notification that you had been detained.”

My anger was well past any explanation. “Tell me why I’m here and what this bullshit terrorist charge is about.”

“The terrorist threat charge had nothing to do with me. According to the local PD, a call was traced back to you. One in which you were threatening to burn the entire courthouse down if Flannigan didn’t get life behind bars.”

“When I was picked up, the officers claimed I was aiding and abetting a known terrorist. Now you’re saying I made a threat. Which bullshit claim is it?”

She shrugged. “Does it really matter?”

I shook my head. “No. I guess not. You know I’m smarter than that. Why would I ever do something so stupid?”

She held a hand up and ticked at her fingers. “Because Patrick had your grandfather killed and everyone is claiming he died of natural causes, even the facility he was living in. Because you were the one who arranged for the cover-up. Because you wanted vengeance.” She lowered her hand. “Any of those reasons could be why. Are you going to admit it?”

I pushed from the table and ignored her question. She fucking knew what I’d done, I didn’t have to admit it, and why the fuck did she care? I couldn’t have everyone investigating his death. And I couldn’t have Flannigan basking in the glory of Killian’s death. I wasn’t going to let him flex his power that way. “You know the terrorist charge is total bullshit. Those cops are on Flannigan’s payroll and just wanted to fuck with me.”

She pursed her lips. “Yes, unfortunately I’m afraid you might be right about that. I’m looking into it.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Get me the fuck out of here then and I might not take down the whole fucking place with the lawsuit I’m going to shove so far up your ass, you’ll be lucky to be pushing paper behind some desk.”

Her grin was wicked as she slid a folder my way. “Take a seat and calm down. You’re not here for terrorism, but you are here for a very good reason.”

I didn’t sit, but I did open the folder.

She tapped her fingernails on the table. “I’m not going to beat around the bush, Logan. You’re our prime suspect in the murder of Elizabeth O’Shea. That’s why you’re here.”

My head jerked down. I hadn’t even read the first line of the report yet. I was having trouble wrapping my head around the pictures of Lizzy’s dead body spread out on the table. “What?”

“We’ve got your fingerprints on an item found at the crime scene. I have a statement from you claiming you never met Elizabeth O’Shea, and yet a mechanic has identified you as the man with Elizabeth O’Shea on March twenty-first when her car went into the shop.”

“Did he identify Elizabeth?”

“No, he said he’d met her inside a bar and it was too dark.”

Whatever. I started to list the other facts. “My fingerprints? On what?” I asked quietly, suddenly very concerned.

“A baby rattle. An elephant’s head.” She pointed to the folder. “It’s all in there.”

I slammed the folder down. “You know I didn’t kill her. Just like the terrorist charge, that’s not why I’m here. So what’s the real reason?”

She shook her head. “Believe it or not, Logan, what I think is irrelevant. It’s the evidence that tells the story, and the evidence in this case is very convincing.”

It would be easy enough to clear up the identification of Elizabeth with a few more photos. The messy part would be explaining why Elle was pretending to be her. And I didn’t want to bring her into this at all. I sat down. Not. One. Fucking. Bit. “What do you want?”

“I want to know where you got the drugs. Who had them before you moved them to Lucy’s.”

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

I knew it.

She knew.

Fierceness tightened my features. “I had nothing to do with that.”

She picked up the folder. “You and I both know that’s bullshit.”

I stared her in the eyes.

She opened the folder and pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me.

I glanced at it. I knew I was looking at compounds, but what the values meant, I had no idea.

“You can keep that,” she said with a smile.

“What is it?”

“Evidence.”

“Okay, I’ll bite. Evidence for what?”

That smirk wasn’t fading. “To convict you of a felony. We found traces of an acidifier compound on the bags of cocaine that were picked up at Lucy’s, and traces of the same agent were found in your vehicle during a recent forensic search.”

My brows drew together in concentration. “An acidifier compound? What the hell are you talking about?”

The bricks of coke were in bags of salt.

“Flora Crystal Clear is what it’s called. It’s a salt compound used to increase the life of fresh-cut flowers.”

No fucking way.

A light bulb went on in my head at the same time a conversation I had with Killian presented itself in my mind.

“O’Shea, he’s Mickey the florist’s boy?”

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s an attorney.”

My gramps raised his brows. “And young O’Shea’s claiming he isn’t involved?”

“That’s what he told Pop, but I’m not so sure.”

Gramps shook his head. “I’m with you. Not sure I’d believe him.”

The tiredness in the back of my eyes faded at the realization I might be right. “Why do you say that?”

Shifting on the bed, he brought his large frame to the head and settled back. “I can’t say, really. It’s a feeling based on what I know of his old man. When Mickey O’Shea was a teenager, he was a small-timer hoping to hit it big. Always doing stupid things. I warned your father to stay away from him in school. And it was a good thing I did. At nineteen, Mickey did a five-year stretch for hijacking a fleet of trucks. His first big job and he gets caught right out of the gate. Fucking idiot. When he got out, he started up his own gang. Some shit went down with his wife and after that the gang folded. Lucky for him, his mother had passed and he took over her flower shop. He seemed to give up on making his fortune and settled for domestic life. Then his wife was killed in some gang-related crime and I haven’t heard his name since. But if the young O’Shea is anything like his old man was, he’s a dreamer hoping to hit it big the easy way.”